be.”
Because doing is everything.
“Not anymore,” said the demon. “I’m curing you. You are not an artist and have never been an artist. You were possessed of an artificial split-personality with a growing superiority complex, but now everything should be all right. The white walls are a good sign. Now you just need to create an opening in them.”
“There’s something to your twisted logic,” I said, “but I don’t think we’re going to do anything about it.”
“What?” said the demon.
“He’s not right,” said Dewey, and pointed at him.
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Huey. “He did a very nice job with you here. Doing is everything.”
The rest is nothing.
“No—yes—I mean... sure,” said Dewey. “But that’s not what I meant.”
“But I killed them!” said the demon.
“You must understand,” I said, “That a man cannot die, but in fire. Fire is the life, and the death.”
“That doesn’t make sense!” said the demon. “And you said you didn’t kill anyone! No human being!”
“And you are, by your own admission, no human being.”
“But...”
“Don’t be a pain,” I said. “Instead, finish here.”
And the white walls calcinated.
Beautiful. Terribly beautiful. No longer cinders, the heat growing, sparks whispering, surfaces burning...
“Hey!” shouted the demon. “You can’t do this!”
He blazed and burned and melted and shrinked and disappeared.
I went away.
~
They say you should always start small. Burn a tree, perhaps; a parked car, road signs, a traffic light. Not us. We, for starters, burned Mr. Liberson’s flat—including two fine leather chairs, forks and knives (one dozen pairs), a life-sized (ugly) china horse, and Liberson himself.
Of course.
Contraption: Id Machine
These small, microscopic constructs can enter your bloodstream at any time. They will stay there, dormant, until the time comes when a rational decision needs to be made. At which time, they’ll suddenly expand, right there in the middle of your brain and lungs and heart and kidneys, and do their function, which is this: they will make you decide to do what you want to do.
You will find excellent excuses for doing what you wanted to do anyway. You will be sure, without any shred of doubt, that you’re doing the right, logical thing. You will be able to draw impressive flowcharts and construct flawless arguments that will convince anyone. You, of course, won’t need any amount of convincing. Your own Ego will take care of that for you.
There is no Id machine in existence, but we work that way anyway.
Benjamin Schneider’s Little Greys
When Benjamin Schneider came to my clinic and complained of mysterious coils on his left wrist, I wasn’t overly surprised. The term “hypochondriac” may have become a bit outdated, but Benjamin nevertheless lived as its perfect archetype.
He had been that way ever since he was a child. I remember the first time he came to me, when I was still a minor family GP at the National Health clinic in town. He was about fourteen, short for his age, thin, curly-haired and bespectacled, and a thorn was stuck, mortifyingly, in his behind. His mother, Mrs. Romina Schneider, did not spare him her wrath—“Every time, something strange has to happen to you!” she said—and the embarrassed child gritted his teeth and gave me a pleading look.
His mother, too, gave me a look—the kind an older woman gives a younger woman she doesn’t trust, doesn’t want to trust, but is forced to, if only by the vagaries of the National Health Service. I don’t remember how I got her out of the room—one of the nurses helped me, perhaps—but five minutes later the thorn was removed to the relief of everyone concerned. Benjamin’s grateful gaze was something I could never forget—if only because, for years afterwards, I received it from him, on average, about once a week.
The week after the thorn incident, for instance, he grazed the back of his neck on
Because doing is everything.
“Not anymore,” said the demon. “I’m curing you. You are not an artist and have never been an artist. You were possessed of an artificial split-personality with a growing superiority complex, but now everything should be all right. The white walls are a good sign. Now you just need to create an opening in them.”
“There’s something to your twisted logic,” I said, “but I don’t think we’re going to do anything about it.”
“What?” said the demon.
“He’s not right,” said Dewey, and pointed at him.
“Don’t exaggerate,” said Huey. “He did a very nice job with you here. Doing is everything.”
The rest is nothing.
“No—yes—I mean... sure,” said Dewey. “But that’s not what I meant.”
“But I killed them!” said the demon.
“You must understand,” I said, “That a man cannot die, but in fire. Fire is the life, and the death.”
“That doesn’t make sense!” said the demon. “And you said you didn’t kill anyone! No human being!”
“And you are, by your own admission, no human being.”
“But...”
“Don’t be a pain,” I said. “Instead, finish here.”
And the white walls calcinated.
Beautiful. Terribly beautiful. No longer cinders, the heat growing, sparks whispering, surfaces burning...
“Hey!” shouted the demon. “You can’t do this!”
He blazed and burned and melted and shrinked and disappeared.
I went away.
~
They say you should always start small. Burn a tree, perhaps; a parked car, road signs, a traffic light. Not us. We, for starters, burned Mr. Liberson’s flat—including two fine leather chairs, forks and knives (one dozen pairs), a life-sized (ugly) china horse, and Liberson himself.
Of course.
Contraption: Id Machine
These small, microscopic constructs can enter your bloodstream at any time. They will stay there, dormant, until the time comes when a rational decision needs to be made. At which time, they’ll suddenly expand, right there in the middle of your brain and lungs and heart and kidneys, and do their function, which is this: they will make you decide to do what you want to do.
You will find excellent excuses for doing what you wanted to do anyway. You will be sure, without any shred of doubt, that you’re doing the right, logical thing. You will be able to draw impressive flowcharts and construct flawless arguments that will convince anyone. You, of course, won’t need any amount of convincing. Your own Ego will take care of that for you.
There is no Id machine in existence, but we work that way anyway.
Benjamin Schneider’s Little Greys
When Benjamin Schneider came to my clinic and complained of mysterious coils on his left wrist, I wasn’t overly surprised. The term “hypochondriac” may have become a bit outdated, but Benjamin nevertheless lived as its perfect archetype.
He had been that way ever since he was a child. I remember the first time he came to me, when I was still a minor family GP at the National Health clinic in town. He was about fourteen, short for his age, thin, curly-haired and bespectacled, and a thorn was stuck, mortifyingly, in his behind. His mother, Mrs. Romina Schneider, did not spare him her wrath—“Every time, something strange has to happen to you!” she said—and the embarrassed child gritted his teeth and gave me a pleading look.
His mother, too, gave me a look—the kind an older woman gives a younger woman she doesn’t trust, doesn’t want to trust, but is forced to, if only by the vagaries of the National Health Service. I don’t remember how I got her out of the room—one of the nurses helped me, perhaps—but five minutes later the thorn was removed to the relief of everyone concerned. Benjamin’s grateful gaze was something I could never forget—if only because, for years afterwards, I received it from him, on average, about once a week.
The week after the thorn incident, for instance, he grazed the back of his neck on
Similar Books
